Why I Quit Photography (And Why I’m Back, Slightly Confused but With a Light Meter)

Let me explain.

At one point in my life, I was a photographer.
Not a casual “I like snapping clouds” type — I mean deep in the murky swamp of strobes, stress, and settings nobody truly understands.

I was adjusting white balance in my dreams.
I once got into a fight with a curtain because it was ruining the ambient light.
I knew 47 ways to say “just breathe naturally” while someone panicked into a turtleneck.

But then… it all went sideways.

The gigs got dull.
The passion fizzled.
The camera started making a low, suspicious hum like it was plotting against me.
And every time I took a headshot, I could hear a tiny voice whispering, “Is this it, mate? Is this what we’ve become?”

So I left.

No tantrum. No blog post titled “Dear Photography: It’s Not Me, It’s Capitalism.”
I just… stopped.
Went to coach humans instead.
Sat in quiet rooms asking big questions like “How do you really want to feel?” and “Have you tried not being in HR?”

It was nice. Still is.
But something was missing — a strange itch in my frontal lobe. A desire to point a black box at someone’s face and say:
“Show me who you are — but, like, in 1/125th of a second.”

Then it happened.

I helped a mate on a shoot. No pressure. Just a bloke with a light stand, a model, and an emotional support biscuit.
And there it was. That old magic. The crackle. The tension. The chaos.
Like discovering your childhood hamster is alive and running a jazz café in Margate.

So now I’m back.

Not as the old me — not the stressed-out pixel goblin trying to be professional.
Just me. Photographing people. Slowly. Weirdly. Honestly. With a camera that may or may not still be haunted.

If you’ve ever walked away from something you loved — not because you didn’t care, but because you cared too much— just know:

You can return.
You can reinvent.
And you can absolutely do it in a dressing gown with a softbox taped to a broom handle.